THINGS TO AVOID: BAD BARS, JERKS, & ASS-FINGERS

A small Asian man put his fingers in my ass this week. It’s not as lurid as it sounds. I happened to have a physical on Wednesday and my doctor happens to be Asian.

I skipped a year on my annual physical because I am a ‘fraidy cat. But late last week I gave blood, and the middle of this week found me wringing my hands in the waiting room of my family physician, imagining bad stuff about the results of that test.

After an hour in the waiting room watching a television psychic with a horrible smoker’s voice ( I have a vision of an iron lung in her future), I was called back by a too tan nurse and asked to produce urine. When I finished pissing on the container, my hands and the floor I made my way to the exam room for an EKG. I may be bald on top, but I am old school hairy on the chest and stomach, a bit less so after the EKG wires were ripped off my torso.

Then it was Doc’s turn to enter the room. We shook hands, an act I instantly regretted as I watched him wash away the bacteria from the last poor soul he examined.

Doc got right down to business and told me that my blood and urine results were great. Sugar fine, good cholesterol up, bad cholesterol down and prostate number lower than before. That last one is a biggie to me, as it is for all humans with a dick, so I quizzed him on the exact number. When he told me, I let out a brief cheer and told him it was better than last time. “Who remembers their PSA number from two years ago?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear. I fucking do, that’s who.

The physical part of the exam seemed like a snap, breathing in and out, holding my breath, real simple stuff. Until I saw him go to the rubber gloves. I was told to lower my shorts and underwear and lay flat on my back on the exam table. Doc was fully gloved now, and holding a huge tube of lube. He was making a point about something, though I was so focused on his gloved hand that I have no idea of what, pounding the tube into the palm of his hand, about six inches from my face.

It was then that I noticed my dick, or was it a cigar butt sitting on a peach pit. I am probably normal in that department, but with the stress and the harshness of the lights, I have never looked more pitiful. Just once I’d love to pull out a huge cock and hear someone gasp or give me a knowing wink. Anyway, the good doctor chose this time to continue his unknown diatribe, my equipment withering to infant status.

My testicle exam was quickly completed, not a lot of ground to cover I suppose. On to the grand finale! “Lay on your side and draw your knees up to your chest.” Was his voice more husky, or was I imagining things? The dreaded prostate exam was over in a matter of seconds, a tissue offered to clean up ( very sweet, but I really need something more substantial).

With my underwear and pants back where they belong, I felt a wave of relief sweep over me and began cracking wise with the doc. He congratulated me on my good health and I walked out into the cool of the morning with my worries about life in proper order. If you are healthy and feeling good, the rest of life’s complexities don’t seem so daunting.

The following bars are daunting however, and far worse than having a finger in your ass.

The Village Idiot on Mack Avenue on the east side is not just a dive bar. I can deal and revel in that. It is downright filthy and features a cast of skids/bums that can rival any. They have an old recliner sitting between pool tables that looked booze and urine riddled, a throne of honor in this dump.

The Hard Luck Lounge, also on Mack across the street from The Village Idiot is another spot to avoid. I feel bad saying this, as the inside is attractive and they have a programmable jukebox, but it is dead. The Tour has been there twice, and twice we left after one or two brews. There is little laughter, less noise and no life at this one.

The Best Damn Bar and Grill on Dix in Lincoln Park is putrid. I should have known something shitty was afoot when I saw a bouncer walking the parking lot looking for trouble. If you have to worry about your safety before heading into the place, avoid it. We didn’t. Instead we spent three bucks cover for the privilege of drinking a beer in front of people deciding who was going to get to roll us. Were there chicks there? Sure, a fat broad and her fat vertically challenged friend ( they looked like a capital O and lower case O standing next to one another).

Don’t forget to steer clear of the Dawg House on Van Born in Dearborn Heights. It is a rare combination of surly service and unfriendly faces. If you want dirty fingernails, big bottoms and furtive glances, this is the place. If, like me, you think a bar should be a fun place to briefly forget your troubles, avoid this dump like its patrons avoid soap.

Finally, don’t forget to forget Tailgators on Van Born In Taylor, State Bar in Detroit and AC Lounge in Taylor. One is dangerous, the next features impenetrable service and at the third I was called a “fag” while leaving. That last one still bothers me (not that there’s anything wrong with being gay. Remember, I loathe most people, gay or straight).

As Tony and I were leaving AC, we had to walk past a line of eight assholes checking out the talent(?). Tony was in front, and as we passed I heard “fag”. I stopped and looked at the lineup. One asshole was smirking and turned away to look at the dance floor. I paused for a second, considered busting his Republican chops, but continued out the door. I did make a mental note never to wear my pink and lime green rugby shirt in Taylor.

Cheers!
-Jim